In the countries of sleep, there are always borders.

Above a border, there are always stars. 

In my doorway is a star                   

that expands to become a billowing fog

like how when I think of my parents

back in that house, I suddenly feel tired.

Awake at night, I saw the landscapes walking upright like lighted candles.

Late-walked into meadows that closed up like mouthless tombs. 

I fall through the floor of a thousand sleepless countries.

A thousand countries fly in low like planes over me.

To migrate is the opposite of rest.

To rest is to make a bed of your own sorry body

and lie down in the middle of your life

unafraid of the pillowing grass

with all the daylight going on.

At 5 p.m., I zipped my past into its own tender suitcase.

At 2 a.m., my weariness traveled like a point along a line.  

There is a star in time my mother pointed out for me. 

There is a point in the distance where it becomes

less important to dream than it is to sleep.

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Hua is a writer and artist. They are currently writing a series of poems about dreams. They love the trees.